Mon 29 Mar 2010 |
|
 Every writer has a "bad story" story. This is mine.Back in the day, I co-wrote, along with a friend as misguided as I, an unsolicited script for a radio show. We called it The 13th Floor, and since we didn't know what we were doing, the title was probably the best thing about it. We were young and we needed the money. My friend Mary & I, who collaborated on this brilliant piece of literature (NOT), both had small apartments in the same building. How small were they, Johnny? •They were so small that if you put them together, they might form a good-sized broom closet. •They were so small that you had to go outside to close the door. That's an old joke, and no, I don't get it either. Just trust me, these apartments weren't spacious. Anyway, we wrote this play for a new show that was trying to bring back radio drama. It didn't work: the show or the play. But miracle of miracles, the producer actually bought our script for the incredible sum of $200 ($100 clams each!) for all rights. All right! When we heard the news, we whooped and hollered and rolled around on the floor, although you couldn't do all that much rolling on a rug that was more like a bath mat. Still, we were as happy as too unpublished writers who were about to be published could possibly be. And then (dramatic organ music here) tragedy struck . . . A few weeks later, those bastards at the network (does that phrase sound familiar?) withdrew their offer. Just like that, with some flimsy excuse or other. Bankruptcy? Death? An Act of God? No explanation could possibly have satisfied us, or dulled our pain, but we were too shocked to protest very much. Things couldn't get any worse for our two young heroines, but of course they did. (Music gets more dramatic.) A few weeks after they told us they weren't buying our story (well, we weren't buying theirs either), we were listening to the show — and we heard a version of our script being broadcast on the air! Our idea! Our script, well, sorta. Okay, It might have been a better version, written by more experienced writers — but it was our idea! And don't forget, we were young and needed the money!! Alas, we were also too inexperienced in the Ways of the World (why didn't we sue?) to fight this thing. We let it go, and as we say these days, we moved on. And little by little it faded from our memories. For years, though, we celebrated Veteran's Day together, feeling that we were now survivors of a war of sorts: the Davidettes against Goliath. And this time, as in most of life as we had come to know it, Goliath most definitely won. So, after all this, why am I not bitter? Simple. (Organ music gets dreamy and upbeat.) To this day, I remember in vivid detail how happy we were to have sold that script. In my mind's eye, I can see that little apartment, the sycamore tree (the one that grows in Brooklyn although this was Manhattan) framed in the catty-corner window, the Murphy Kitchen, the red ratty rug, and especially the whooping and rolling around on the floor in pure joy.  On the other hand, I don't recall much of the bad
stuff: including the script itself or the details of how it all played out, so to speak. I don't even remember if those dastardly bastards even bothered to change the title, or if they had the gall to use that too. The other day in the elevator of my building, which ironically is just a few blocks away from the brownstone where I lived back then, someone got in on the 13th floor, and because I know he's an actor, I told him I had once written a play called The 13th Floor. "Good title," he said. Little did he know . . . Did YOU know about the rock group in the 60s called the 13th Floor Elevators? And yes, they had their ups and downs . . . but their music lives on today. Although not on elevators. |
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Bitter Patter
NO LAUGHING MATTER:
Did Demi Moore overdose
on laughing gas??
That's what's being reported
to those of us at:
A DEVOUT COWARD
GOES TO THE DENTIST
Have you seen The Artist? Seeing it mentioned at
The Golden Globes reminded me that that not ALL movies are
Incredibly Loud!
Do NOT Google Santorum.
I warned you . . .
I did it!
I actually got that
LITTLE BLACK DRESS!
How hard was it?
Click on the link above.
I also got my iPhone.
It's great.
Thank you Steve Jobs
Wherever you are.
Just as I posted I WAS THE GIRL PHANTOM, I found a website called The Ghost Who Blogs about The Phantom comics:
http://falkonthewildside.blogspot.com
Writing Comics. . .
Was a small but wonderful part of my checkered career, and doing a post about it brought back a lot of great memories. If you know any other women in NYC who wrote — or are writing — comics, tell me how to get in touch with them.
I'm on a watching-old-movies kick these days.
Great way to lose yourself.
If you're lucky, you'll never be found.
REVIEWS TO PERUSE
I'm All Right, Jack:
"Jack" is not just all right, it's totally delightful and fresh as a daisy after all these years (made in 1959), with Sellers, although not technically the lead, giving the brilliant performance that launched him as an international star. He plays an all-too-zealous union leader and father of a blonde bombshell who falls for Stanley, the British Upper Class Twit played, also to perfection, by Ian Carmichael, who you might remember from the Lord Peter Wimsey series. The makeout scenes between the the Twit and the Bombshell are priceless. But what is Stanley doing in this working class atmosphere anyway? Working. And too well at that. Forced by financial circumstances too dreary to discuss, he gets a job in his uncle's factory and messes things up for the other workers by, well, working, and thus making his fellow employees look bad. The film takes a big shot at unions — but also at management: they are manipulating white-collar thieves who'll do anything for a buck. Or a pound. Except for the ones, like Major Hitchcock, played by Terry Thomas, who are just plain lazy and inept. Needless to say, Stanley foils everybody's plans, labor and management alike, to my great joy and delight. Oh, and on top of everything else, Margaret Rutherford plays dotty dowager Aunt Dolly. Delicious!
The Big Lebowski:
What can you say that hasn't been said before: brilliant, inspired, with some of the most memorable lines ever to come out of a movie, the most quoted being "The Dude abides." Oh yes. For anyone who hasn't yet seen the film, and it's now out in a special Blu-Ray edition if that floats your bowling ball. The Dude in question, played to perfection by Jeff Bridges, is an out-of-work pothead who is roughed up and has his rug destroyed by some thugs mistaking him for another, bigger, Lebowski. The Dude is really upset about this because, man, "that rug really tied the room together," which The Dude says with all seriousness and not a trace of irony, a great comic touch considering the condition his condition is in. Oh, and besides "Just Dropped In," all the music is perfect for the film. The plot, according to Wikipedia, which has been known to be wrong, is "loosely based on Raymond chandler's novel, The Big Sleep." Could be. But who cares. It involves a bowling competition, "the occasional acid flashback," a trophy wife, a group of German nihilists, a kidnapping gone awry, a mad millionaire and his lackey, in another great performance by Philip Seymour Hoffman. Actually, they're all great performances. Never a fan of John Goodman before or since, he is brilliant in this film. And so are John Turturro, overacting his little heart out, Steve Buscemi in a nerdy, needy role that makes you marvel at his star turn in Boardwalk Empire, and even the actors in the smaller parts, especially Julianne Moore and Sam Elliott. Elliott plays The Stranger (God? Everyman? The part of us that roots for the bad boy?) who elicits from Bridges the immortal words, "The Dude abides." Which prompts The Stranger to comment to the audience: "Don't know about you but I take comfort in that. It's good knowin' he's out there. The Dude. Takin' 'er easy for all us sinners. Shoosh. I sure hope he makes the finals." We'll never know about the bowling trophy because there's never been a sequel to this 1998 film by the great Coen Brothers, and I hope there never will be. It just abides, as all great films do.
Prince of the City:
Okay, the criticisms of this movie are not totally unfounded: it's too long, and Treat Williams may have overacted a bit, although I found him so deliciously charming I couldn't care less, and there's one part concerning the Jerry Orbach character I just didn't understand. But get over it, The New Yorker, this is one powerful movie. And yes, Dog Day Afternoon it isn't, but what it? The DVD has a great special feature with Williams (I so want to call him Treat) and Sidney (what the hell: I once made a meatloaf sandwich for the man) that explains a lot about filmmaking in general and this movie in particular. Also, Sidney's views on good and evil, and how things are not so black and white as you think. I loved it.
Bad Day At Black Rock:
Recommended on TCM by Robert Osbourne as a film he originally had no interest in seeing, then loved it, and by Alex Baldwin, who pointed out the great actors in the cast, including Lee Marvin, Ernest Brognine and Dean Jagger. Well, after all that, I had to like it, right? I did. A lot. It was a Good Day On My Couch.
Behind the Scenes Stuff: Spencer Tracey was off drinking and wouldn't commit to the film until the producers (who wanted him desperately) told him that they had Alan Ladd, at which point Tracey grabbed it. He was perfect for the part, wearing a dark suit and tie the entire time in a western setting, pulling it off perfectly. Other than that "fashion statement," the film makes a strong case against racism: the hatred of the Japanese during WW2. See it.
Song of The Thin Man:
I usually like these frothy, silly, suave, utter unrealistic films from the 30s and 40s, with William Powell and Myrna Loy as the couple we'd all like to be — if only we had the looks, brains, money, a huge capacity for drinking and a dog like Asta. But this one was a stinker, rather than a stinger, or maybe a sinker, because it turned out to be the last, not to mention the least, in the series. Watch any of the others four sequels, but not this one: Even the pooch jumped the shark.
The Children's Hour:
It had its moments, and just looking at Audrey Hepburn makes life worth living, but mostly I kept thinking that the play, by Lillian Hellman, was so much better. It's about two young women runing a school for girls, who are accused by a hateful little brat of being (GASP!) lesbians. And although the closest we get in this 1961 production to using that actual term is the word "unnatural," it's enough to ruin their lives. A young Shirley McClaine is worth seeing in this, and James Garner, and Audrey Hepburn is, well, Audrey Hepburn. The rumor of the love that dare not speak its name is totally untrue — or is it? And I'll say no more, because you should see the movie for yourself, imperfect as it may be, as is Life Itself.
by martinis alone,
I like this blog:
grapesandgreens.blogspot.com
BITTER PATTER
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from the past.
Comments
In all these years of knowing you and and a few years working with Mary, I don't ever remember that story! The nerve of that big bad network. It would never happen today, everyone has a lawyer in their family.
I live in a building that does not have a thirteenth floor on the elevator board. What does that mean for the residents who live on 14? Maybe you should speak with Mary and come up with a new idea for a play. Can anyone think of a good title?
It's a sweet story and well told. And it fits in perfectly with your "I can't believe I'm not bitter."
In fact, I'll even say it, "I can't believe you're not bitter" over that one. I'd be so pissed off! You have a much healthier outlook. Good for you!
And maybe karma caught up to them. Maybe they went to the thirteenth floor just to check out a scene. They opened the windows and then the wind blew. And the script was blown out of their hands. And as they went to save it.......well........
OK, I'm just kidding. I gotta save all my karma too!
On the other hand, I like your scenario, too.
we'll call "Al" because that was his name. He was a great cartoonist and impressionist and we came up with a takeoff on Dracula. I played Renfield and he did a great Bela Lugosi. We auditioned for Steve Alllen & his entire cast and they loved it. Gave us the "Don't call us, we'll call you" routine. A week later, they began doing Dracula sketches on a regular basis. Very much like we had showed them. We were pissed, but what can you do? Stuff like that happens in the biz. Al went on to help create Bullwinkle and I went on to edit a national children's magazine (with a lot of help from the creator of this blog) and author a lot of books. So you win some, you lose some. It's called experience. As Doris Day used to sing, "What will be, will be!" Who can spell Kay sa rah, sa rah? Remember her, Kay Sarah? Never mind.
By the way, Kay Sarah married What's His Name and they had a child named Whatever.
And I bet you were a great Renfield.
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